


For As Long As You Live

by Moransroar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, HIV/AIDS, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3695384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moransroar/pseuds/Moransroar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Maybe I can't live to love you</i>
  <br/>
  <i>As long as I want to</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Life just isn't long enough, baby</i>
  <br/>
  <i>But I'm gonna love you as long as I live</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	For As Long As You Live

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by Tumblr's bisexual-lady-di and gethin-moriarty, the precious babes

And so that was it. Sebastian had packed his bag, stuffed as much clothes in it as he possibly could, and tied his shoe laces just to buy himself some time and look around the familiar flat one last time.

To be frank -and since his tears had long since dried and his self-pity had subsided- it might have been a tad rash decision, but there was no going back now, and he really should hurry up before Jim would get home and coax him into changing his mind. Sebastian was determined. Scared, but determined.

And maybe that was just what had done it for him; the fear of Jim rather choosing a dog with rabies over him if he were to know what was in that letter. That godawful letter, sitting on the mat in the hall. It had made the decision for him, and now the sniper had to go.

Fear makes everyone irrational, but Sebastian deemed this particular event justified since he literally saw no other way out than the dooropening, and that was all too appealing of an escape when he thought of what his boss’ reaction would or could be.

_You’re **filthy** , Sebastian._

The blond shuddered before picking up his bag and taking his leave.

On his way out, he glanced at the letter, contemplating whether he should leave it there for Jim to find along with an empty bed and wardrobe, or if he should take it with him and burn it. Burn the contents. HIV positive. There is  _nothing_  fucking  _positive_  about that.

So Sebastian has to go.

He had told Jim. Told him over the phone, over a text message -as fucking  _pathetic_  as that it- that he wouldn’t be home that night, requesting for Jim not to wait up for him. And he knew that Jim wouldn’t, because after all, the man had faith in him.

And as he pulled the door closed behind him, Sebastian shook. Fear again, that must be it. Because if the man who had faith in him despite everything, who had helped him through his PTSD and scooped him out of the gutter every single time he landed in one and giving him jobs and things to do and to take care of. Who gave him a purpose in life, to put it nicely dramatically.

If that man wouldn’t help him and take care of him, then who would?

 

 

Sebastian had been acting so strangely ever since the sniper had been MIA for a week, seeming distant and secluded, growing more isolated with the days that passed. Believe him when he says that he had tried everything to get the man’s mind off whatever had happened – Sebastian hadn’t told Jim, and didn’t seem to want to talk about any of it – but nothing seemed to have been able to pull him out of that downwards spiral.

He hadn’t foreseen it coming, but he had anticipated something of the likes. So when Jim came home to an empty flat and a letter on the mat, he wasn’t too at a loss. No, he didn’t know where Sebastian had gone to, but he did know that there wasn’t a single fibre in his body that would want to miss the sniper.

So he sought.

Jim picked the letter up from the mat and read it, swallowing thickly with the news. Slowly but surely, an image of what might have happened after the job that had went awry, and it was oddly heart-shattering. Sebastian, ex-Colonel. So strong, physically as well as mentally, was ill. And not just ill like he had seen the man have the sniffles or some kind of flu, a temporary virus. This, this wasn’t temporary. And if they weren’t careful, it wouldn’t be temporary in the sense that Sebastian would soon not even exist anymore, save from a body that would be put in solid ground, six feet under.

That definitely wasn’t appealing, and so Jim sought.

It wasn’t too difficult to track Sebastian down when the man had taken his phone with him – probably in the haste of getting away before Jim were to come home and stop him from leaving. But what _was_ a little unsettling, was the location Sebastian was at.

Heathrow airport. Most probably about to board.

Jim tried calling, messaging Sebastian, but the other man had either shut off the sound of his phone or was ignoring him to death. It was unreasonable, why would Sebastian leave him like that? There had to be a better explanation other than his disease.

From then on, it was a race against the clock. Sebastian was leaving, and if Jim wasn’t on time he wouldn’t be able to trace him so easily. Sure, he had all sorts of different means of doing it, but that would take days, perhaps even weeks. And the criminal definitely wasn’t that patient to have his sniper back.

_For fucks’ sake, Sebastian._

The car didn’t go fast enough, and traffic was hell. The driver was an arse for not going fast enough. Lives were at stake here. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

Jim was sure that if Sebastian were to depart before he would arrive, he would never see the man again, and that simply wasn’t something he favoured enduring. He had rather spend another few months with the man than parting ways like this and never hear of him again.

No tea in the morning, no one to reach out for when he was slowly slipping into one of his moods, no warm, preheated bedsheets with a solid body pressed to his own, keeping him safe. Could Jim ever learn to sleep without the man again? Without callused fingertips drawing patterns across the small of his back under the duvet, without Sebastian’s grumbling about the rain, about jobs. What was he to do?

For once, Jim didn’t have the situation in hand, and it tore at his chest more than he would admit it did.

At long last, the airport came into view, and Jim ordered the driver to just drop him off and wait for him by the entrance while he would go fetch the sniper.

Inside, it was busy. Far too busy. Jim’s head spun as he whirled around, searching for familiar streaks of blond, broad shoulders and a slim waist. _Sebastian._

“Sebastian!”

No, no fuck that wasn’t him. Of course that wasn’t him, his hairline was too high to be Sebastian.

“Sebastian? Seb- Sebastian?”

Wrong terminal. Where the hell was he supposed to go? Why was everything so bloody vague, what the hell was happening to his eyes. His vision. It.. blurred.

His breathing picked up as he sped through the hall, glancing over every single blond that passed, that stood in line, that waited. His throat felt dry and his voice was hoarse with shouting at the top of his lungs, trying to be heard over the loud lull of voices in the hall.

_Mo chuisle._

After five minutes of frantic searching, Jim gave up.

Having lost all his energy after a long day of work and now this, he trembled with the effort of trying to stay upright and still look out for Sebastian, who he was fairly sure had already stepped on his plane, rose to the sky, away.

In a busy departure hall of such a big airport, nobody pays any attention to the one person that sits alone to the side, small bag by his feet, head in his hands.

Jim wouldn’t have either, if it weren’t for the fact that he had to rub his eyes to be able to see again, wipe his hands on the trousers of his suit. Lifting his gaze slowly, trying his very best to accept this one defeat and get on with it, Jim’s eyes fell upon the nape of a neck he knew oddly well and hair that he had carded his hands through so very often.

The criminal stepped forward, his heart leaping almost painfully with every beat despite his exhaustion and stinging eyes, and all but dropped himself to his knees before the other man. He brought his hands to the other’s hair, pushed them through the locks from the front to the back and tilted the head with it in the process.

Big, scared, _terrified_ blue eyes watched him, a mixture of shock and disbelieve and raw fear legible in his expression.

“Sebastian,” Jim whispered, pressing his forehead firmly to the blond’s, “You fucking scared me.”

That seemed to trigger something in the sniper, as tears suddenly formed in his eyes and spilled down his already tear-stained cheeks. On any other occasion, Jim would have tutted him for being so openly and publically weak, but that would be hypocritical of him since he himself might just be crying as well.

Sebastian’s lips were parted, but no words former, not even simple syllables as the man begun to shake with silent sobs, and the next thing Jim knew he was wrapped in the sniper’s arms, sitting on his lap on the ground.

But he didn’t care. Jim buried his face to Sebastian’s neck, who in turn pressed his firmly to Jim’s shoulder. Jim knew he needed to scold Sebastian for running off, for keeping his disease a secret, for being so distant and so irritably quiet and introvert. But he didn’t. He didn’t feel like he had to, because he was certain that Sebastian knew all that he wanted to say, yet neither said a thing about it.

“I’ll take care of you,” Jim murmured, keeping his sadness at bay as much as he was able to.

“I feel filthy,” wailed Sebastian ever quietly, and if it hadn’t been for their close proximity, Jim would never have heard.

The criminal shook his head, pulling back briefly to press an excruciatingly soft kiss to the sniper’s trembling lips, cup his head between his hands.

“You know what’s filthy?” Jim murmured, bringing their faces close together, expression soft.

Sebastian shook his head.

“You sitting on the ground in an airport terminal.”

Sebastian huffed quietly, tears slowly subsiding, and smiled.

And it was the only thing that Jim needed. A smile. Sebastian’s smile.

The raven-haired man sighed.

“Let’s go home, mo chuisle.”


End file.
